“I would not want to be dominated by a boisterous, arrogant, unworthy man.”
Master catches my chin in the cradle of his fingers, strokes his thumb along my lower lip, causing it to open involuntarily. “How do I fair under your scrutiny?”
A shiver rolls through me at his touch. When he looks at me like this, he sees past my once ruined body, past my weaknesses, my sins, and my trauma, and directly into my soul. “You are worthy, Master. You’re the only person I want to see me.”
This seems to satisfy him, and we proceed into the shower, large enough to accommodate us both. I rub Master’s stiff shoulders, massaging them as I lather him up with bar soap, then work my way down the tight bands of muscle along his back to the base of his spine. I wash his buttocks, his limbs, strong torso, his balls, and his thick, uncut cock, a testament to his Roman Catholic upbringing and Italian birth. Master is a true immigrant and self-made man.
I rinse him with warm water, then position him so that he can stand underneath the spray while I shampoo his salt-and-pepper hair, making sure to massage his neck and scalp where he holds tension. When he’s fully rinsed, I go down on my knees in front of him and nurse his cock into arousal. I use only my mouth to coax his tumid cockhead from its tight sheath. It plumps like ripe fruit and nourishes my hungry mouth. I know what Master likes and how he likes it. I can read his moods and his body language like a beloved book and anticipate his needs before he even knows them himself. I could make him come like this—if he’ll allow it.
But I am teasing him too much, showing too much initiative. Master grips the back of my head with both hands, fingers hooked like talons digging into my scalp. He presses my face against his warm, wet groin, so that his cockhead breeches the back of my throat. I gag from the suddenness of it, then relax my muscles so that my sensitive tissues can milk him properly. Seconds pass where I’m trapped there, unable to breathe, and I know this is only the beginning. I need these reminders, for Master to tell me who is in control, who isalwaysin control.
The edges of my vision start to blur when Master finally pulls back, still cradling my head in his powerful grip. He checks to make sure I’m breathing. I breathe only for him.
“We’ll use the mask tonight,”Master says.
We’re in the playroom, his dungeon. I’m about to retrieve the mask when Master says, “Fermati,Giovanni. Let me look at you first.”
I stop and pivot toward him, vibrating all over.
“Palms out,” Master says, assessing me from head to foot. A flush of shame overcomes me, though it’s a little less so each time. There are scars on my arms from injecting drugs and several cuts, now healed over, that are the result of my captivity or self-inflicted. The demons sometimes make me do bad things. But there are no new ones today. It’s been a good few weeks.
“Very nice,” Master says in appreciation. He reaches for my ass, starting at the top of my crack and sliding his hand downward, parting my cheeks and using his middle finger to prod at the base of my plug, maneuvering it expertly with just one fingertip. I moan from the pressure it exerts against my prostate. “I’m going to work you hard tonight,” he warns.
“Yes, Master,” I croon.
“You’ve been very good lately, so I want you to know this is a reward, not a punishment.”
“Your attention is never a punishment,” I tell him, which isn’t altogether true. There are some punishments Master doles out that are not pleasant, like squatting with my back against the wall or caging my cock while he milks me repeatedly, or if I’m being very bad and might be a danger to myself, putting me in the box for a timeout. But I know I’ve done nothing to deserve a punishment. I’ve been very, very good.
“You’re myschiavonow,” Master says as we begin our scene. “Your only desire is to please me. All of your pain and all of your pleasure belongs to me.”
Master knows how deeply enmeshed the two are for me, as well as the shame over how my body has been abused in the past, by myself and others. I consciously give him control so that I no longer have to hold on so tightly. So that I can be free.
“This slave wishes only to serve,” I say rotely, which signifies my consent to proceed.
“Vieni.”
He fits me with the mask, which is a soft, calf leather. It covers my entire face, including my ears and eyes, but has an opening for my nostrils and my mouth. The back of it is open at my nape, so that Master can still grip me by my hair. By eliminating some of my senses, my attention is more focused on whatever implements Master chooses to use on me. In this way, the mask helps me get into the proper headspace. Master raises my arms to where there’s a metal ring suspended from the ceiling and I know already to hold on. He places a foam block between my ankles to act as a spreader. Master won’t restrain me, though I sometimes wish he would. I’ve begged for it in the past only to be assaulted by a panic attack. He says that we may try it again later, but for now, I must simply restrain myself. He then covers my nipple rings with secure bandages, which means there will be impact to my front as well.
Master places his hands on my back, my ass, my abdomen. Firm touches that remind me I am only flesh and blood and bone, that my body belongs to him. “You’re going to be sore tomorrow,” Master says with a hint of delight.
“This slave welcomes the pain.”
He fondles me roughly, tugging at my balls and yanking my stiff cock so that it slaps my stomach. He manipulates the plug, tugging it to stretch me to its widest point, then shoving it back inside to torment me.
“Please, Master.” This is the closest I will come to begging. My grandfather’s pride prevents me from groveling too much.
“Va bene.”
Master uses the flogger first, a leather whip with several lashing tongues. It’s too light for my tastes, but he wants to warm me up first, and I know that this initial flush of heat will only make what comes next even better.
“Pain level,schiavo?” he says because I’ve been quiet too long.
“Three.”
“I’m changing instruments.”
“Yes, Master.”
